


Brook No Threat

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Big Bad Wolf - Freeform, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fantasy, Forests, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kings & Queens, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Magic, Murder, Prophecy, Rape/Non-con References, Revenge, Violence, Warrior queens, Werewolves, Wolves, Woman Kings, warriors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Little Red Riding Hood where little red is a girl to become a warrior and the big bad wolf is a wronged witch become queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Think the Wolves Have Got Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl in a red hood goes through the forest with her basket to meet a woman in a cottage but she is not alone with a wolf hunting her on the way.

Red banners once fluttered in the breeze from the tall towers of the castle, richly embroidered with gold, replaced when the sun bleached the colour and the wind ripped at them, fraying the ends. Those banners are gone now, ripped down when the wolf queen came and devoured with only a few strands of red clinging stubbornly to stone. Now black banners threaded with silver hang in their place to signify their new ruler, the conquering queen who came from nowhere to seize the throne. A lonely throne they call it but only far from her hearing. None have dared to cross or challenge her for years for it is whispered fearfully that her spies are everywhere. Her influence extends for miles until the forest line but every year it is cut back further and further. She loathes it. Once she loved it and knew it well, roamed barefoot so her skirts snagged on root and branch but as with so many things it was spoiled, soured. Poisoned. Now she glares at it from her high tower and seeks to conquer it as she did this kingdom. She will see it bare to allow a blanket of snow to cover it, pure and clean, hiding everything ugly and scarred. She sends her soldiers to cut it down, obedient, utterly hers now, as all the woodcutters are gone, their bellies cut open and weighted down with rocks, bodies thrown in the river. No explanation is ever given to these peasants. After all no explanation was given to her by the woodcutter in the forest years ago.  
  
On the other side of the forest in the shadow of the mountains the exiles of the kingdom live. Nobility and peasantry mean nothing now as they work the land or set out down the river and even to the sea to fish in their rickety boats with sails made of tattered red cloth crudely stitched together. A small community - few managed to flee the night the queen descended upon them, hemmed in and trapped so the survivors count themselves lucky, prayed they are not found so that they may live their lives in peace. They have a few hardy animals to rely on that they guard carefully and what they grow may not be exciting but hardy root vegetables are filling. Hunters creep into the woods but never stray too far. It's dangerous. Angry with the queen for cutting it down year after year and angrier still with the spies she sets loose, birds and beasts smarter than they should be, ready to report back. Sometimes men and women garbed as peasants or hunters but they never find what it is she seeks; failure means they never see the forests again or anything at all, only a cruel curl of red lips and the golden flash of her eyes. So the hunters of the village dare not venture far and take only what they need, keeping their weapons low and leaving offerings for all that they take. The forest is brighter on their side with flowers and all variety of herbs, echoing with birdsong. And deep within it lies a single simple cottage, well-hidden unless someone knows where to look.  
  
"Be careful," a mother tells her daughter as she ties the bow of her little red hood, "straight there and straight back unless she keeps you. Don't talk to any strangers."  
  
Her daughter sighs but smiles, adjusting her basket laden with goods. "Yes mother, I promise," and up she stretches on tiptoe to kiss her on the cheek before she heads off, waving goodbye. The sun is shining, glittering on the still river water and glinting off the snow on the mountain peaks but beneath the thick press of trees it will be damp and cool, the kind of conditions that make it easy to catch a chill. So off sets the girl in her little red hood with her basket laden with bread, meat, eggs, cheeses, vegetables and herbs. She was born after the kingdom fell and this has been her home for all her life so she doesn't fear the forest as much as she perhaps should. As she goes she sings nonsense songs about different animals, stopping to blow on spider webs, watching the spiders scurry out in search of a non-existent meal. Dew dampens her skirts as she ploughs through tall grasses, disturbing the odd hedgehog snuffling through the undergrowth and many rabbits who stop to sniff the air, noses twitching. A deer spots her, bounding away on those long strong legs with a bark. Everything smells alive, rising damp and mushy leaves, wet squelching and rustling beneath her feet; soon steam will rise from the ground when the sun starts to heat the forest, its light penetrating through the canopy but it's still early enough for it to be cool as the world wakes up, the birds in the high branches trilling away merrily above her. Clumsily she attempts to mimic them like the hunters do but no birds sing back to her, instead a fox pricks up his ears, yowls once and darts off, his coat thick and glossy even in the poor light.  
  
Unbeknownst to her she is not entirely alone on her journey. Keen eyes are following her as she goes, a man clad in thick furs blending in with the wilds. Her little red hood makes her easy to follow even from a distance, creeping after her even as the birds and animals chatter angrily at him. Branches grab at him, roots make him stumble and grasses wrap themselves around his ankles to slow his progress as he struggles onward, determined not to lose sight of her. But the little girl in the red hood isn't stupid and she peers this way and that, wondering if there are wolves or maybe even a bear, stock-still, barely breathing. It isn't meant to be very dangerous - her mother would never send her if it was but she has always been taught to be on her guard. Carefully she inches her way to the nearest tree, leaning back against it. She tries to summon up her courage, closing her eyes and breathing as quietly as she can. A crow is still screeching but she hears no heavy ponderous footsteps or huffing and puffing. Off she goes again. Not quite running but she no longer dawdles to look at birds or butterflies. She wants to whistle or sing a happy tune to distract herself, the silly songs her mother and father sing to chase away her fears of monsters under the bed or outside her window in the dark of night. She stays silent hurrying along to the cottage deep in the woods, looking over her shoulder for a shambling shape. It's quieter now but every rustle makes her jump and gasp, every crack of a twig makes her halt. When a frog hops and lands on her foot she screams before muffling the sound, tears on her cheeks.  
  
"Little girl!" A voice, a man's voice, deep and clear, shouts, running forward with worry in his eyes. "Little red hood, is anything amiss, are you hurt?" He stops a few feet away from her, crouched low so they are at eye level with one another, smiling. "Do not be afraid little red hood, I am a simple hunter who heard your cry."  
  
"I thought," she mumbles through hiccups, "there was a bad thing."  
  
"Not at all, not here." He straightens and offers another smile, wider but somehow less friendly. The wind howls through the trees, wafting the smell of old, mouldy fur her way and she wrinkles her nose, clutching her basket tight. "Where are you off to miss red?" She takes a half-step back. "Why are you out here all alone with this basket? You should beware the wolves my dear." She says nothing to him but she can't move - she can't go back home and lead him there but she can't let him see where she's going, no one else can ever know of that place. "Cat caught your tongue?" He tries to joke and sound light and funny only it falls flat and to her, he sounds angry. She tightens her grip on the basket until her hand hurts.  
  
"Don't talk to strangers," she says in her bravest voice, echoing her mother and father.  
  
"Smart girl." It sounds like a bad thing to be, coming from this man's mouth.  
  
They stand in the woods together, neither willing to move until the man straightens and turns on his heel with a curse, crashing through the undergrowth. She waits where she is, wiping her face before continuing on her way, still wary of the stranger. She's right to be afraid and uncertain still - he isn't gone, he's still watching, slipping through the shadows low to the ground.  
  
On the way her good spirits recover somewhat and she plucks flowers on her way, inhaling deeply; the flowers smell sweeter in the woods the deeper you go and the prettiest are found in the meadow at the heart of the forest where there stands a humble cottage made of wood with a thatched roof, a herb garden that grows what the village cannot; village plants and herbs are not native to the forest, they are from where they lived before whereas this garden is full of forest plants, carefully cultivated and here they grow in abundance. The woman who dwells within always appreciates bouquets and posies no matter the beauty of her own garden so the little girl is sure her gift will be welcomed. More than that she is simply grateful for visitors and gifts. The little girl in the red hood hasn't been here too many times but she loves it and is always happy to go with baskets whenever her mother sends her. Skipping to the door she straightens her clothes, readying her best smile with the events of earlier almost forgotten as she knocks. It takes a few moments for the door to open revealing an older woman to look upon but perhaps old before her time due to some hardship. Whenever the little girl asks about why the lady lives in the woods alone and not with them in the village her parents simply smile sadly then shake their heads, saying she prefers it that way.  
  
"If it isn't dear little red riding hood," the woman says, bending to push the girl's hood back with one smooth palm, ushering her inside the cottage. Before she closes and bolts the door she looks out suspiciously as she always does. "How are you today?"  
  
"I'm well - I saw a frog on the way!" She answers with a smile, offering the basket out to the woman. "It's so sunny in the village too, it look like the sun was in the water."  
  
"Maybe I'll see the village one day," she replies with a tone of quiet mourning.  
  
"Nowhere there is as pretty as here." It's the truth; the cottage is small but beautiful, made of dark wood that still smells fresh, walls and floors possessing a glossy sheen. Dark red curtains of velvet hang at the windows and many works of embroidery decorate the walls, red shot through with gold, depicting many beasts. The cloth is fading like all the red fabrics the little girl has seen all her life. She suspects that the woman was rich once. Lots of beautiful things are scattered throughout the cottage: chests of all sizes with ornate locks, delicate necklaces of silver, gold, fine glass beads and jewels and even a mirror of solid silver. Little red has been told never to ask questions about these things on her visits.  
  
"Anywhere you are," the woman says, almost startling the girl from her daze watching a deer and her fawn drinking from the stream that bubbles along by the cottage, "must be the prettiest place."  
  
It makes the girl blush as red as her hood.  
  
They sit and talk for a time, the woman telling stories until the girl remembers her encounter in the woods. That's something she should tell this woman and the adults in the village too. She tells the lady everything and it dismays her to notice how pale she becomes, her hands clenched tight in her lap so she hops out of her seat to pat her knee, offering a smile. The smile she receives in turn is shaky and suddenly the lady is on her feet, sweeping off to the kitchen to load the basket with bits and pieces. The girl doesn't understand why the lady is so sad and scared as her hood is drawn up, basket handed back.  
  
"Go straight home, tell your parents what you told me. Go before it gets dark."  
  
"But it's still early!"  
  
"Please child, you must tell them of what you saw."  
  
"Was he a bad man?"  
  
It makes the lady hesitate, hand pressed to her mouth. "Yes," she says after a long pause, "he is a bad man, little better than a wolf."  
  
"Will he still be there?" Suddenly she is scared again, wishing to be home in her mother's arms where all is safe. She settles for clinging to the long dark skirts of the lady who strokes her cheek, smiling as though she is afraid too but trying to be brave.  
  
"He might be but he will not follow you if you go straight home. Hurry now little red riding hood, swift as a deer, silent as a shadow."  
  
"I promise," she vows as solemnly as a little girl can, clutching her basket tight. The door is opened, the lady looks this way and that then sends red riding hood on her way, watching from the doorway until the girl disappears from view.  
  
When she turns around another hooded figure is waiting for her. A man with a fur hood pulled up and over his face. There are ears and teeth on this hood, holes where eyes once were. His eyes are more cruel than those of any wolf. In his hand is a glittering blade, wickedly sharp, and he advances slowly, laughing as he does so.  
  
"Long live the queen."


	2. Queen-Sized Tomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queen dies but the wolf queen is not appeased for red still haunts her, a shadow of a past she will never let herself forget.

The silence is eerie. There is no sound: no birdsong, no rustling of animals in the undergrowth, only the quiet creak of branches in the wind over the sound of her own breathing and footsteps. Something is wrong. It should not be so still here. She stops, looking for a hint of life but there is nothing. When the bad man was near all the birds and beasts went wild in their outrage. She moves forward a few more steps only to stop dead when a scream pierces the air, that of a woman, high and clear. She's never heard a sound like that before but her body reacts, the basket dropped, heart pounding and before she even starts to run back to the cottage she's sweating. Cold air burns her throat and lungs and the run whips her hood away from her face as she races back the way she came, skidding to a halt close to the cottage. The door is still shut but there is muffled shouting from inside. Carefully, quiet as a mouse, she tiptoes to a window, peering inside and she claps both hands over her mouth so no one will hear the cry that tries to escape.  
  
The room is destroyed, curtains and banners ripped down, chairs and tables knocked over, the lock on the big chest hacked open to let the contents spill out across the floor. Crowns, swords, rich gowns and a wealth of coins are scattered across the room as the lady lies back against a wall, clutching her breast as a monster hovers over her, a tall wolf on two legs with a bloody knife in his hand, growling in a menacing voice. She has to help! She has to do something. Creeping away she seizes a heavy stone, whispers sorry then throws it as hard as she can into the bushes. Birds explode out, a riot of feathers and angry squawking. Again she hides, just in time for the wolf to leap out of the window with a curse, galloping off into the dark of the woods. When she is sure he's gone she goes back to the window and with a lot of effort and grunting she scrambles inside, landing with a heavy thump in an untidy sprawl. On hand and knee she makes her way to the lady, pale as fresh snow and somehow she looks even older with her skin no longer smooth but wrinkled yet tight against her bones, her hair more white than grey. Her eyes are closed, still, they seem to have shrunk. She doesn't understand but grabs for her with a whimper, shaking her awake. It takes a long time and oh she is very, very cold now.  
  
"Little red hood," the lady whispers, eyelids fluttering, "I said to go home."  
  
"You're hurt," she sniffles, little hands folding over the lady's. Something is hot and wet against her palms - with alarm she draws back to see blood upon them. She starts to cry then. "Bad man, bad wolf."  
  
"Yes, yes. Very bad. Dear-" there's a violent hacking cough that interrupts the lady's words, "red hood there is a necklace, a cloak and a sword in the chest. In the-- in the bottom. Under a false bottom. Take them."  
  
"Why? You need a healer, I can run fast, I can get one, I can-"  
  
A trembling hand clasps both of hers. "No dear. Sweet girl no. There is no time, no healer who can aid me. It is done." She wails at that, burrowing close to her, no longer caring about the blood. "Don't weep little red hood, he did not take what is important. Only my life. It is nothing now; take those things and there is hope."  
  
In the night they all come with knives and torches, her mother sobbing at the abandoned basket until they break down the cottage door to find little red hood still weeping, begging the lady to wake up. They bow their heads as a mother and father pull their daughter into their arms as she tells them her story, stumbling over her words, exhaustion and lingering fear making her teeth chatter. She tells them all of it then falls asleep in her father's arms, waking in her own bed, clean and warm, wrapped in heavy red velvet. A curtain from the cottage. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes she sees many things that once belonged to the lady from the cottage. Her parents are both asleep in chairs by her bed and she wakes them, hoisted up into their laps still wrapped in red velvet. Her mother smoothes her hair, her father rubs her back with one large hand and for a while they sit together quietly, a family reunited after a tragedy that could have been so much worse. Only then the parents look at one another with dark eyes knowing that there are two paths before them fraught with their own dangers and most of the way obscured to them. They do not know how many times the paths might split off or if they will end too soon, perhaps the paths will join together again, many roads to the same fate. This fate does not belong to them but to this girl, their daughter, small and innocent in their arms awaiting explanations they hoped to keep until she was older and better able to understand.  
  
Before the sun sets, when a long story has been told they board a boat with red sails, a mother and father with their daughter clad in a red hood between them and a chest to be kept safe, sailing down the river to another land until it is time to return. When the sun finally sets that night the moon is full and bright. Against the black, still waters it glows like a silver coin.

* * *

  
  
In the kingdom, still known as such even when a queen rules it now and a queen ruled it before her too, the king only a king through marriage, paces the wolf queen, the conquering sorceress. She's pacing in one of her towers looking out into the darkness that serves to cast the forest in an even more forbidding light. It grieves her heart (a heart she has when so many have called her a heartless monster, she has more heart than they would ever believe) that any good memories of forests are gone. Even now she misses the lush scent of pines greeting her in the morning, the songs of birds she knew so well, walking barefoot with the wild things as she practiced her craft. A true witch, not a simple purveyor of herbs and poultices or a reader of leaves. Through her flowed true magic and power. They sought her from far and wide including the man who kindled this great hate inside her; she hates him most of all, more than she hates the forest or woodcutters or the colour red. Her stomach roils and she turns from the window to stare into the pool of cool, clear water that reflects the light of the moon, looking through it, beyond it. In it she sees the same thing she has so often seen - a long red cloak flaring like a banner behind the owner, a golden necklace about a white throat, a wolf's head with a red moon in the snarling jaws and finally that damned sword, the cruel cold steel, the bejewelled hilt. A phantom pain seizes her as if the blade has pierced her heart, rendering her weak, similar to a pain felt long ago yet different still, a hurt of the soul not the flesh. Time has blurred the details. Never can she discern the true features of the red-hooded figure - she believes it must be the queen she displaced who somehow escaped her clutches, the queen she will destroy the world to find.  
  
A knock on the door rings through the chamber and with effort she tears her eyes from the pool, the water hissing and bubbling, sending up a thick haze of steam with a faint red tinge. Where once was clear water reflecting the black marble of the pool it is now red as blood. No one dares to enter her chambers or any room she is in without her leave so she makes her guest wait as she slowly undresses, gown a puddle on the floor when she steps into the boiling water. Never has she been scalded. She welcomes the heat, reclining comfortably before calling out to whoever seeks her out. One of her hunters stumbles in, still filthy and stinking from the forest. She will have to punish him, she thinks, for daring to be in her presence in such a state.  
  
"My queen," he greets, bowing low. Still she feels his eyes upon her, knows he looks up as much as he dares to see if there is any flesh he might stare at. Such insolence. She hates these coarse hunters who remind her of a man long ago who fed her honeyed words but sought to destroy her when she would not let him possess her. "I bring glad tidings at long last."  
  
"What tidings do you bring?" She does not dare to hope for her hopes are dashed so cruelly all too often. Hope is a wicked thing, raising a person high in giddy elation only to send them plummeting into a vast dark abyss as soon as it is ripped away.  
  
The hunter steps closer, kneeling next to the pool. "She is dead, great queen." From his furs he brings forth the enchanted daggers she gifted to all her hunters, coated in dried blood that he holds out to her, eyes shining. "Dead by my own hand your majesty."  
  
With steady hands (she will not tremble before anyone, never again) she takes the offered blade, raising it up in the light for a better look. The scent is right, still fresh enough - it belongs to the right woman, a smell she will never forget; for good measure she brings the blade to her mouth and runs her tongue along the flat of it, iron and steel on her tongue. Perhaps just a mild castigation for his lack of propriety then rich rewards.  
  
"At last it is at an end," she intones quietly. "Tell me, where are her possessions, where is her body?"  
  
The hunter looks away. "Someone heard her scream, they crashed through the undergrowth, there was no choice but to flee."  
  
Silence reigns, heavy and oppressive, the water around her cold like her fury with a sheet of thin ice spreading outward from her body. "You fled."  
  
"My blade plunged through her heart your majesty!" He shouts, fear, not anger, in his tone. He forgets too that it is not his blade, it is still hers, her magic infusing the weapon to draw all life and strength from the one struck by it. He is right to be afraid of her. She does not tolerate failure.  
  
"You left! You did not bring me her as I commanded! Did you bring me any of what I instructed to be found?"  
  
"I-I searched, please, most gracious queen she did not have them, I tore her cottage apart in the search! It was only her and the petty riches from when she fled and others raided! You said one strike from the blade and she would be dead and I assure you she must be so, I felt her blood hot upon my hands, her scream piercing the air. She is dead and your reign is secure forever more." He is weeping by the end, stumbling over his words with his head resting on the edge of the pool as if it will hide his shame. "Mercy," he sobs, "mercy."  
  
"There is none," she growls and rises from the pool in one fluid movement.  
  
Immediately he stumbles to his feet to run from her and to the door but one thought with her hand outstretched has it locked tight, no hope of anyone entering or escaping lest she wills it. Slowly she advances upon him, naked, but now his gaze is anywhere but her, trying to break free by clawing at the door and throwing himself against it. It does not budge even an inch. She barely hears his whimpers and screams for help. The guards will hear but they are hers. As she moves she allows the change to begin. Her limbs lengthen, tendons snap and pop, ligaments tear, muscles re-knit, bones break and reshape. Fur forces its way through her skin. Every sense is amplified and alive as her nails become claws and her teeth are turned into vicious razor sharp canines. Terror floods the room; the whites of his eyes, the stink of his sweat, the frantic edge to his please as she bends and plucks him up by the throat as if he weighs nothing. She snarls in his face and he trembles in her grasp, panting even though she isn't depriving him of air - it's never fun to squeeze the life from them.  
  
"Look upon your queen," she growls, "am I not beautiful to behold with all my power? Answer me!"  
  
"Please," he whispers.  
  
"Please," she mocks, using the same pathetic voice he does. "I begged once, for my life and a man only _laughed_ and did as he pleased. There was no mercy for me that night. He took me when I refused, against my will he took me and he and others mocked and laughed. The lies of witches who seduce men. Temptress," the words spill from her mouth over sharp teeth, the pain of a lifetime ago fresh in her mind. " _Whore_. Liar. I had only helped them and your gallant king sought to destroy me when he could not possess me. He sent a woodcutter to find me. A greedy man he paid a great sum of coin to to do a deed deemed too lowly for his knights, a man I had helped heal, who had been in my home. The man with his axe who smiled before he struck my belly with it, over and over." Her claws puncture the soft flesh of his throat as she tightens her hold momentarily to punctuate her words. "Then he dragged me deeper to a pool fed by a small waterfall. A beautiful place. The place your king of old found me. My magic was strong then so I bled in agony as I wept for mercy, for him to let me live but he laughed. ' _Always knew you were a whore, bet you lie with the wolves witch._ ' I had _healed_ him of his hurts but the moment your king laid a hand upon me all was poisoned." Where once she had barely been able to think about what had been done to her she now drew a strange strength in being able to admit it, to be able to speak the truth of what had taken place, removing the shame the king had laid upon her. No more would he continue to cast a shadow over her and her future. She was determined to be free of him entirely. "He piled stones into my belly then crudely stitched me shut. I could barely breathe. I prayed for death, to be free of this pain I had never deserved. He cast me into the pool so I would sink. Forgotten. No justice."  
  
She pulls the man closer, eye to eye, nose to nose. He makes a final tiny strangled sound before she tears his throat out with one bite.


	3. Catch Not Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Riding Hood marches with her army, a woman grown and the wolf queen sends her forces out to meet them with the truth finally revealed.

Many years later a young woman clad in a red cloak once belonging to a queen returns by the same river she departed. About her throat is a necklace of gold, a blood red moon clasped in the fearsome jaws of a wolf, gleaming above her armour. At her waist is a belt where her sword hangs, the hilt overly ornate in her opinion but she has never felt it is her place to remove them or alter any of the gifts she was given years ago. She hasn't been home for so long - her parents have a better life in the land they settled in and she is glad that they are finally comfortable. All the same, she could not in good conscience remain with them when a queen lay dead now that she knew the story of why they came to the village she spent the earliest years she can remember in. She should have been born in the kingdom on the other side of the forest with banners of red and gold, a prosperous land, their queen the only child of the king before her, her husband a noble from another land who brought with him wealth and soldiers. Her parents had been farmers, they knew little of their rulers only that their queen liked to mingle with the common folk, talking with when she could, giving aid when it was needed; she had ventured out less after her marriage and her smiles had become tight and few, as if melancholy and sorrow were draped across her shoulders, weighing her down with every step. There was some scandal they whispered of in taverns, of a witch who cursed the queen with a barren womb so she could someday take the throne with the king. It was his refusal that sent her mad, arriving with an army of her own out of the forest, men in wolf skins with supernatural strength, wolves enchanted to walk as men, wielding their weapons and using their speech. They slaughtered any who opposed them, the witch striding at the head of her wild army casting spells left and right, marching with purpose on the castle. Many escaped into the woods but many more were trapped, rounded up. What happened next her parents knew only from rumour but the witch slew all the knights or used her magic on them to put them under her control. The queen could not escape and had to watch as the witch tore open her husband's belly with her nails, filling his belly with stones, keeping him alive with her magic as she stitched him shut and made him walk to the castle baths where she drowned him before the queen. The survivors launched a rescue for her and though it had been only a week she had been confined she was grey and drawn and stopped in the heart of the woods. It was there that they built her cottage, more men and women returning to convince those left behind to leave, stealing from the castle until it became too dangerous and they withdrew to hide.  
  
None had spoken to the queen of it. How could they ever have wished for her to remember and relive what she had witnessed?  
  
The years have not been kind to the land she once knew so well as little red. The forest has been felled severely and the village is mostly gone, only one or two homes still standing with rot covering them, warping their frames. Her home is gone. Did others live there after the departure of her family? Many others followed down the river and over the sea; the wolf queen's army came seeking what little red bore away with her parents the evening after the dethroned queen was murdered. The wolf queen did not come or send her knights further than the village, others said. Her influence could not extend so far and so she ruled in stony silence, lashing out when it suited, waiting for the day one would return to challenge her.  
  
Another boat is pulled to the shore and the young woman turns to behold those who have followed her to reclaim their home. In truth she sometimes wonders what might have been had she remained with her parents but as soon as they had spoken of the things gifted to her by the dying queen she had asked to learn what to do with them. She knows now why the wolf queen seeks these items for they have a power in them: the necklace to know the mind of wolves, the cloak that will shield her from all harm and the sword that can kill with a single stroke and will always find the target. Red hood she is still called but she is no longer little; Ragnhild is a woman grown though she still has her red hood from childhood tucked away in a pocket, unable to part with it even if it is a hopelessly tattered thing now. She thinks of it as a good luck charm or a talisman but doesn't talk about it. She cannot be seen as a child by the men and women she leads now who have followed a girl back home to fight for a place that is fading from their memory. So many of them are older now or are the children, like her, who should have grown somewhere else, ready to march for the vengeance of their queen. There is still something that niggles at Ragnhild that she can't quite put into words, more rumours she has heard whispered but she must lead her army with conviction so she puts her doubts aside and welcomes them all, bidding them to make camp so they can begin their march on a fresh day.  
  
"I know there are many like me who have never seen this kingdom and that many others who fled believe we are fools to try to take it from this wolf queen," she begins around the large fire when night falls about them, "but I say that we have conviction the likes of which she has never seen! We who wear the colour of blood, our blood, and of anger! All of us are fighters who have trained for hours and we wear armour well-forged and wield weapons strongly made. And if we die then we will die knowing we died for our queen who was lost and for our home and friends who did not flee and other friends turned against us by her magic. We die as friends, as comrades." A rallying cry goes up around her, cheers and yells with arms thrown in the air or weapons striking shields to disturb the peace. "Tonight we revel in being alive, tomorrow we march through what is left of the forest that shielded us for so many years. It is an honour and privilege to have known all of you - you will fight bravely and do not only myself but yourselves proud too!"  
  
"For the queen!" They howl, rising as one to draw their weapons and thrust them into the air. "For our red hood!"  
  
That night they sleep early, the last night they might rest still breathing before death lays claim to them. In the morning they march through the forest upon the castle and their fate.

* * *

  
  
From high in a tower the wolf queen watches this girl clad in that hated colour. She watches her and her armour, a sea of red, blood on the snow as they march forward to meet her own armour clad in their wolf armour, black and silver, fur and mail and her enchanted blades ready to carve their way through the would-be invaders. They have come further than she expected but they will not breach the castle walls, not with her wolves and her magic sewn into every inch of them. The shouts reach her as she watches with cold unfeeling eyes as this girl - common as they come, the whispers speak of she has a noble name but is the daughter of farmers - surrounds herself with men who believe in her cause. It is that fact that gives her the briefest moment of pause. Belief runs deep and belief in her own magic has done her well, it will overpower what this girl musters, a ragged force of common men and women swinging swords and shields as they try to hack through her army. So many fall, more red upon the ground and that is the only time the colour is remotely agreeable, when it spills from her enemies. Her kingdom will not fall so easily, not this day with a ragtag army cloaking themselves in old colours fighting for what they have never known or scarcely remember.  
  
Let this girl break her bones against her walls. Let her smash herself to pieces. She is Medb the wolf queen, she is magic and power, she is what vengeance truly is; she possesses what the man who wished to have her had. Does this girl know what she could do to her? Her magic is the strongest force on this earth to those so close to it and if she wished the world could crack apart beneath the feet of the army, swallowing them in molten rock and fire. She could harness the wind and snow to flay the flesh from their bones but she will not. If this girl wishes to prove herself she will have to fight her way there, face her army, break through the castle doors and ascend to a tower on high. Medb will allow her that if she proves to have the fortitude. If her old enchantments keep her safe. Their old queen lacked that strength and perhaps Medb could have shown her something different, could have tried to help her find her strength but some part of her had been horrified but the knowing look in her eyes and the way she had reached with soft hands and tears.  
  
What use had she of pity? She wanted anger for her. For what had been done. Not empty platitudes and arms to hold her.  
  
She turns from the tower to garb herself as befits a queen. Her crown in place, black and rising in sharp points, glittering in the flickering torchlight, her gown of silver mail with the fur colour thick and warm about her, the neckline plunging in a way that should make her vulnerable but her magic will keep her safe from all harm. She wears no gloves but hinged rings, ornate, turning her fingers into sharp claws. She is what a queen should look like - beautiful and untouchable as if she is made not from flesh and blood but something stronger and harder, something no one can touch lest she wills it. Is she dressing for her victory where she puts these rebels down once and for all? The rivers will be choked with bloated corpses for days to come when she is through with them and she will put the girl down with her own blade, down on her belly looking up at all she could never hope to be even if she tried for a hundred years. When she turns back to the window the girl is gone and her army still remains though somewhat lessened although her own soldiers number amongst the slain. Such is the price of war - she will prevail even as she can see them begin to panic when the red hooded men and women show no sign of giving up as they buy their young leader as much time as they can, laying down their lives for their ideals. From below there is a great commotion and she listens intently though her face betrays nothing. She is as stone. She is composed and regal.  
  
She is ready.  
  
The screams continue, the ring of steel and gasps for air, scuffing footsteps on the stairs and then the clatter of steel on wood again and again and again as impossibly this girl reaches her. Medb braces herself with magic bubbling close to her skin, so ready to pour out or to shift her shape to rip and tear but when the girl does not throw herself into combat immediately she stops too. They take their measure of one another, the alpha and the challenger who would usurp the leadership. Again a pain seizes her, the one deep in her chest but it is an aching clench, not a violent stab and it gives her pause as the girl gathers breath, so close to staggering but some strength keeps her standing.  
  
"What is it you want girl?" She demands with authority of one sure in her power, of one who was ruined once and will not suffer being ruined again.  
  
"I would have the truth of why you tore this kingdom down once!" The girl replies furiously, her sword in hand, shield in the other, covered in the blood of enemies and allies alike.  
  
"What do you know of truth red hood?"  
  
"I know I have grown weary of living on rumour," the girl snaps back with a sigh, breathing heavily as sweat beads upon her brow, stray hairs plastered to her face, cheeks flushed from strain, "I would know what there is to know so I might decide your fate - will I be allowed that?"  
  
"Would you believe me or would you be as they were before? Your king," and she spits the word out like the foulest of curses for that is what it is to her, "spread such lies about me throughout your common folk and peasantry even when I had given aid to them."  
  
The girl sighs but does not flinch at her words. "Many have died already, I would not see more death without knowing what it is that set this flame."  
  
"Do you even know what you possess? An enchanted sword and an enchanted cloak but what you wear about your throat, do you know what it is?" The girl shakes her head even as the hand holding the shield moves to touch the necklace, bloodied fingers running over metal and stone. "You could know all the truth if you so desired, that necklace wields a power to know the hearts of all and to amplify so much. Are you so arrogant to believe that they follow you simply because you are a fighter wishing to avenge a queen?" At least she has the grace to look chagrined at that. "None before have cared to hear the truth, not even your queen."  
  
"She died in my arms at your command and I would know why she died." Old pain creeps into her voice at that and even a wolf queen who almost died with a belly of stones in a river cannot hide a wince at that; she wonders what it must be like to watch someone you care for die, to witness such tragedy when you are so young. An innocence stolen too early. "Tell me," she implores, taking a step forward. "I would know all there is to know."  
  
The wolf queen can grant her this much. She tells them all before they die, all those who cross her, who fail her and why should the girl be no different? It takes time to tell it all once more, even excruciating detail and she watches as the girl looks horrified at what she hears, clutching the necklace tight.  
  
"Allow me to go to them," the girl finally whispers, sounding breathless. And Medb, she should seize this chance when this girl looks defeated in such a way but she relents because she has listened. She has listened and she is staying her hand. It is more than has been offered before even if there is a hard look in the eye of the girl, sharp as flint, cold and furious. She has seen that look upon her own face so often and so she nods, sending her away. She could drive a blade forged of her blood and magic into the girl now, piercing her armour and gliding through flesh as a hot knife through butter. There would be little sound, only a gasp and blood then she would be no more but the anger that rolls from Ragnhild in waves is not directed at her but at something more.  
  
The girl leaves, clearly exhausted and lacking strength but she forces herself to keep moving, to march with her head held high, shoulders back. The pain in Medb's chest eases, replaced by something she will not be able to explain for years to come.

* * *

  
  
The forest grows again but the snows are always present years later, never lifting no matter the season.  
  
They say that the sorceress seduced their young red hooded warrior but she will tell the truth if any ask. She has seen the truth in the eyes of queen Medb, a pain too terrible to comprehend as too many did nothing, spreading lies and preying upon one who had no power to fight back against their words. Red and gold hang alongside black and silver, two tall queens who rule with absolute impunity and any who speak against Medb meet the wrath of Ragnhild in her red cloak who runs barefoot through snow with the wolves snapping at her heels. For wolves saved Medb, the young witch left to drown with stones in her belly, ripping the woodcutter apart and pulling open stitches, nursing her back to health. That is what they do now with the wolves who grow large and strong, howling in the night beneath the moon.  
  
A wraith they call her years later when she has aged not a day, still ruling with her sorceress in their high towers. They are not gentle but those who remained and those who come seeking sanctuary love them. Ragnhild is the figurehead of their army, wrath tempered with wisdom and Medb something transcending mortality with ancient magic in her veins. The red hooded warrior sleeps safe in the arms of the wolf, offering up her throat every night and together they hunt down those who would dare to prey on the weak, on the innocent, enchanted blades cutting open bellies and stones weighing down their bodies to serve as warning.  
  
The banners never fade, fed by blood and magic and they sleep peacefully at long last. Medb sews her magic into a new cloak that lures men with wicked hearts to follow a young woman alone, one they think they might take by force and leave. Ragnhild returns with blood hot upon her mouth and hands that Medb kisses away. Red riding hood and the wolf queen, the wraith and temptress, warrior and queen. In time they are the woman kings held aloft, both smiling the same sharp smiles of secret knowledge hidden beneath the shadows of crowns and hoods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one title: Wonderland - Natalia Kills  
> Chapter two title: Queen-Sized Tomb - Shivaree  
> Chapter three title: Catch Not Break - Trespassers William


End file.
